


Where I Can't Follow

by ThymekeNerada



Category: Da Vinci's Demons
Genre: M/M, childhood story, how they got to know each other, set a couple of years before the show
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 23:35:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3096746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThymekeNerada/pseuds/ThymekeNerada
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It started out as one of the worst days in Tommaso Masini's up to that point rather short life. But then he was saved by a strange boy, Leonardo da Vinci. His life is about to take a turn for... the better? The worse? Who can tell? But things will never be the same for the future Zoroaster da Peretola. </p>
<p>The story of a special friendship that will last a lifetime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where I Can't Follow

**Author's Note:**

> My headcanons about this pairing abound, and they are getting more and more on a daily basis. I've never written a longer fic, and I really hope I can stick with this one.

**PROLOGUE**

**March, 1473**

Zoroaster takes a deep breath. He has made his decision and it’s final. He slowly exhales. He feels relieved and numb at the same time. Empty. It’s good to have this off his chest. He’s been agonizing over this decision for days, and he could not have born it for much longer. And yet…

         Zoroaster sits up and looks to the west. The setting sun has immersed the city at the foot of the hill in bright light, and Florence is aglow in warm hues of red and yellow. He pulls an envelope from his pocket and pulls out the letter inside. He lovingly traces the signature at the bottom with his fingertips and sighs. Then he folds the paper and tears it apart. He repeats the procedure several times until all that is left of the letter is myriad little pieces of paper. He holds them in his cupped palms for a moment, then he opens his hands and commits the letter to the wind. His eyes sting, and he squints. Must be the sun.

         In the end he did what was best. He will be who he must.

 

 

**CHAPTER 1**

**October, 1466**

The last day on which Zoroaster was still only Tommaso had started out as one of the worst days in his up to that point rather short life. Considering that life seemed like an endless valley of tears and suffering to him back then, that was quite something.

         Tommaso’s father got up with the break of dawn to be in time for his work. Tommaso didn’t quite understand why the plants in the palace garden couldn’t wait till later in the morning, but the Medici family’s regime was strict. They did not tolerate slothful behaviour in their servants. Unfortunately, his mother also woke up from the sound and movement. She immediately started to groan: she had a bad hangover from last night. Tommaso’s mother tried to cure her discomfort in the only way familiar to her: by drinking even more. Early in the morning. That was an exceptional low even for her. But there was no one to keep her in check. Certainly not her husband. His father… Tommaso prefers to not think about him too much. His father is a gentle, soft-spoken person, but also a weakling. He is a gardener, very likely the most useless person to be found in all of Florence. All of Italy, Tommaso corrects himself, as he inspects the bruises that run along his arm, his waist and his hip with cautious pressure of his fingers. It hurts like hell, and the colour of his skin has already changed to a nasty shade of purple. Next he reaches to the cut that runs up his temple and vanishes into his hair line. Of course it cracks open under his touch. He hisses in pain and curses under his breath.

         “Maybe you should see a physician about that.”

         Tommaso scoffs. As if he could possibly afford to see a physician. But the strange boy with whom he now finds himself on the rooftop of some workshop high above Florence doesn’t look like he ever lacked the means to afford even the most basic necessities. _Or does he_? Tommaso tries to gauge the boy from the corner of his eyes. He is a complete riddle to him, and Tommaso does his best to figure out this stranger. The soft, sensitive features of his face make him look very young, but the tallness of his body betrays that he is older than he looks. Probably a couple of years older than Tommaso himself, fourteen years give or take. But despite the difference in age, he’s extremely slim compared to Tommaso’s own, robust figure. He looks fragile, Tommaso thinks. But the spark in those brown eyes which shine out of a pale face tell a very different story.

         _Who is this boy?_ Regardless of who he is, this stranger is certainly the best thing that has happed to Tommaso on this cursed day.

         His mother had been in a nasty mood, naturally, while she lay on the bed. She tried to cover her eyes with a wet rag and moaned. Tommaso tiptoed through the room that morning, doing his best to escape her notice. He was convinced that the superior sneaking skills that came in so handy when he was stealing food were entirely owed to his mother’s abysmal temper. An irritated growl here, a strike that didn’t hit its mark there, nothing worse. Tommaso was a lithe little boy, and his mother’s marksmanship was pathetic when she was drunk. It was entirely bearable. Tommaso was moreover unwilling to flee their room just yet. He had found a strange mineral during one of his recent expeditions to the stone quarry close to the city, and he was dying to get a closer look at it. Maybe if he ground it into a powder, or heated it, it would give off some colour that was hidden in its elemental makeup? He wanted to find out more about it before he could add it to his extensive collection of minerals, dead animals and plants.

         Tommaso had just produced the stone from its hiding place when everything started to go wrong. His bloody father did something that he never did and never should have tried: instead of just sneaking out and to the Medici’s estate, he scolded his wife: “You smell like you spent the night in the gutter, woman.”

         Tommaso froze. He was so terrified, he didn’t dare to breathe. What had gotten into his father? “You think so?” his mother had roared. And in that moment, all hell broke loose in their small, dingy room. His parents shouted at each other at the top of their voices. His mother started to throw things at her husband, before she got up from the bed to hit him in earnest. A stray projectile flew into the direction of where Tommaso had cowered down in panic. It grazed his forehead and cut deep. He howled with pain and fear. Unfortunately that had made his parents aware of his presence. Tommaso’s eyes widened in shock as his mother plunged into his direction with a shriek. She grabbed his arm and hoisted him up.

         “You and that wicked mongrel, you are God’s punishment for me!” His mother tightly squeezed his arm while she hissed that. Tommaso squirmed with pain and desperately tried to wriggle free from her grip, but to no avail. Eventually, his mother flung her son at the bed. His father made an unsuccessful attempt to catch him, and Tommaso banged against the bedstead with full force. In spite of the white-hot pain that cursed through his body, Tommaso managed to grab the bedpost before he could topple to the ground.

         He clutched his side and tried not to cry. He had to stay calm. He had to think straight. He needed to find a way out of this situation. His mother would not calm down until she’d beaten him black and blue. The door was on the side of the room, blocked by his mother. No escape route there. That only left… the window. If Tommaso had believed that the Christian God cared for the likes of him, he might have prayed. They lived on the fourth floor of their tenement building. He had made the climb a couple of times. In times of great need, that was. But he had always been in possession of his full health. Now… his arm hurt like the devil himself was gnawing away at it, and under any other circumstances he would not have put any strain on it at all.

         But he had no choice.

         Within seconds, he was standing on the window sill, turning to his left where an ivy plant looped upwards along the drain that ran along the side of the building. He was just preparing to jump when a hand on his shoulder made him lose his balance. Tommaso was convinced that he would plummet to his death. Next thing he knew, thanks to some miraculous reflex, he was dangling from the window sill, clutching to the ledge with his good arm. Above him, his mother stared at him with a mixture of shock and rage on her face. Tommaso again turned towards the ivy plant. He could still do it. He clenched his teeth and prepared for the impending pain. Then he started to move, making use of his entire body weight to swing towards the drain. He stretched out his wounded left arm, then let loose and shot through the air. He got a grip on the drainpipe with his left arm, and was already sliding down down down.

         He yowled like a whelp upon impact and sagged to his knees. He dug his fingers into the dirt of the road to cope with the pain. He took a moment to breathe and gather himself. Fortunately it was early in the morning, and he had landed in a little frequented side alley off the main road, so nobody had seen him drop. Tommaso quickly took stock: nothing seemed to be broken, but his left arm felt like it might be sprained. All things considered, that was much more than Tommaso could have hoped for. He was alive, for starters. He hadn’t lost a limb. He could even walk. He was loathe to leave behind the mysterious stone, though. He had dropped it in the turmoil, and who knew what had happened to it afterwards? He just hoped that his parents wouldn’t detect the rest of his collection and trash it. They hated the odd things that he loved to gather. They considered it an infidel habit. But it was his own fault if they found it. He had planned to hide it in a better place, under a loose floorboard in the basement of the house.

         Tommaso sighed, and started walking. He would probably go into hiding for a couple of days. It was autumn, and while the days were still mild, the nights had become cold. But he had no choice but to spend the next couple of days away from home. He had done so before on several occasions. His parents would eventually calm down and just forget about him. They didn’t care over much about his comings and goings. Then he could return. He never quite understood why he bothered to return at all. He didn’t want to live on the streets and become like the street kids he sometimes met, for one. And of course there was the food. As if on cue, his stomach started to growl. There hadn’t been any dinner last night, and Tommaso had not yet managed to run to the market for breakfast. He had no money on him.

         So stealing it was.

         Tommaso sighed again. He hated to steal food, but lately he found himself not infrequently bereft of any other option. The local trading folk knew him, and had caught him red-handed before. They were merciless, and had given him a good beating more than once. Last time they had threatened to hand him over to the Night Watch if they caught him at it one more time. He’d better be careful then, and not get caught. But of course it was a star-crossed day for him.

         If the boy hadn’t been there to safe him.

 

*******

 

         When Tommaso reached the market, the piazza was already bustling with people who had come to do their morning shopping. The smells of all kinds of food items alluringly wafted through the air. Tommaso rubbed his belly and grimaced: he was feeling queasy. He scanned the crowd from behind the column of the first floor entrance to a storeroom. He wasn’t even sure what exactly he was looking for. Stealing didn’t just require skill, but also the right opportunity.

         Over there, just below the flight of stairs: a lady was approaching one of the bakers with an entourage of two ladies in waiting. The baker was on his own this morning, and his attention would be engaged with his customers within seconds. Hastily, Tommaso slid down from the landing where he had been hiding and approached the stall with the flow of the crowd. He was not carrying a bag, so he could only steal a small amount of food, otherwise the bulges of his pockets would give him away. A roll of bread was the item of his choice, and he quickly slid it into his pocket. Next, his eyes fell on some gingerbread. He hadn’t had a treat like that in forever. His mouth started to water in anticipation. It was a decision taken on the spur of the moment: he gave in to temptation, and grabbed for the gingerbread.

         Looking back now, he can see that this small act of greediness was what sealed his fate. He didn’t pay enough attention, hadn’t be aware enough of his surroundings. He deserves what he got.

         He shakes his head. “No need for a physician, I’ll be fine,” he replies to the boy. “I’ve had worse.”

         The boy raises an eyebrow. “Really?” he asks quizzically. “You get caught that often?”

         Tommaso reacts with irritation: “Of course not! It was a slip,” he defends himself. Then he sees the mischief twinkling in the other’s eyes. _Is that boy teasing me_? Tommaso wonders in bewilderment.

         The boy nods in agreement. “That wasn’t my impression. Usually you’re not so negligent. But your hunger got the better of you. You were taken off guard. How could you know that the baker’s apprentice would return in that very moment?”

         True, Tommaso couldn’t have known. It had all happened too quickly. His fingers hadn’t even closed around the gingerbread when he was already seized by the shoulder and brusquely spun around. “What do you think you’re doing?” a voice shouted. Tommaso cringed in pain. Once he came face to face with his attacker, he could see that it was the baker’s apprentice. He must have returned from some errand without Tommaso noticing.

         Tommaso’s heart sank. He knew the other boy all too well: he was a particularly mean apprentice who took pleasure in tormenting Tommaso. Of course the apprentice had immediately recognized him: “You ugly little rat, this time you’ve gone too far. We warned you,” he spat. Tommaso tried to bend away from the drops of salvia landing on his face, but the apprentice’s grip was relentless.

         “It’s that little thief,” the baker roared. His apprentice nodded. “This time you’ll go to jail. Call the Night Watch, Giacomo.” Tommaso turned pale. He was lost. The Night Watch didn’t take kindly to thieves, particularly not repeat offenders. They cared precious little for the fact that he was only ten years old. He had so far evaded a worse fate only thanks to the leniency of the Florentine tradesfolk.

         The apprentice nodded eagerly. If Tommaso had hoped to use this moment to escape, he was disappointed. The apprentice made sure that his master had Tommaso in a firm grip before he let go off him to run for the Night Watch. It didn’t take long until the guardsmen showed up. By the time their squad of three approached the baker’s stall, their small scene had already attracted the crowd’s attention. People were thronging the stall and curiously observing the on-goings. An arrest, wasn’t that something?

         Tommaso was sick with fear. His stomach churned and he desperately tried to supress an urge to gag. He didn’t want to puke onthe guardsmen’s boots. Even if all he could spit out was some liquid, as his belly was devoid of anything solid. But he was so scared of going to jail. He had heard horrible stories from the kids who lived in the streets of Florence.

         The captain of the guard mustered Tommaso inquisitively. “That’s the thief then?” he asked.

         The baker nodded vigorously. “The very one,” he growled. “This scoundrel can’t keep his fingers to himself. We caught him stealing several times. We warned him. Gave him a chance, thought maybe he’d mend his ways. He didn’t. He’s jail material, that one.”

         “All right then.” The captain of the guard turned to Tommaso, then gave a waved command in the direction of his subordinate. The baker gladly handed him over to one of the guardsmen. Again Tommaso hissed in pain when he felt the tug on his sprained arm.

         That was the moment when the strange boy who is now sitting opposite Tommaso appeared out of thin air. He tapped the baker’s sleeve and said: “Respected sir, I think there might be some kind of misunderstanding.” Tommaso was pretty sure that there was no misunderstanding involved, but he was amazed by how nonchalantly the boy faced the baker and the Night Watch. They were all strong, burly men, towering high over him. But the lad didn’t seem impressed at all. Instead, he casually played around with a small, round glass that he held between his fingers.

         The captain frowned. “What do you mean, young sir?” he asked. It was obvious that he disliked the disturbance and was eager to get on with the arrest. But the boy’s finely embroidered clothes seemed to indicate that he was not your regular street urchin, but rather the son of a respected Florentine citizen, therefore the captain tried to be civil.

         “You are arresting my servant,” the boy said unflinchingly. If anything, Tommaso had to respect his adeptness at lying. The boy seemed to be blissfully unaware of the impatience in the captain’s voice. He held the glass to his right eye, then lowered it so that it was exposed to the sun. The reflection first danced on the captain’s face, then fell onto the straw baskets of the baker’s store.

         “This boy was caught stealing,” the captain retorted, the growing irritation clearly written all over his face. “How do you explain that?”

         “That’s the misunderstanding. I sent him to fetch bread.”

         “Then why did he not pay?” the baker barked indignantly. Tommaso just stared on, saucer-eyed, as the argument unfolded before him. He was mystified as to what was going on. Then he noticed that smoke was rising from the basket right behind the captain. Nobody apart from him seemed to have realized.

         “Urgh,” the boy groaned, and gave a dismissive flip with his free hand. “My servant can be an idiot. It must have slipped his mind.” Tommaso flinched as the basket caught fire. He tore his eyes open in bafflement. What was happening?

         “That’s the most ridiculous lie I’ve ever heard,” one of the guardsmen sneered. His captain nodded in agreement and added: “Maybe we should arrest you, too, as an accomplice.” The flames flared up and spread to the adjacent baskets

         The boy shook his head. “Like I told you, a stupid mistake.”

         “Sure. Tell that to the judge,” the captain scoffed.

         “You have to believe me,” the boy protested. The captain made to grab him, but never actually got to go through with it, for in that moment the stall burst into flames. The Night Watch’s guardsmen recoiled, while the baker gave a pained howl. People started to panic, and everybody was getting away from the stall as quickly as possible. In the chaos that ensued, Tommaso suddenly found himself released.

         “Run,” the boy barked. Tommaso didn’t need to be told twice.

         Later on, he would be unable to answer why he had instinctively followed the boy. But he did. He darted through Florence’s alleys, always close on the older one’s heels. The guardsmen didn’t take long to give chase. Tommaso and the boy weaved through the streams of early-morning shoppers, and took frequent turns to deflect their pursuers. But the guardsmen weren’t shaken off easily, and instead drew closer and closer.

         Tommaso’s legs started to burn. It was difficult for him to keep up with the older boy. He wouldn’t be able to go on for much longer, and he was already falling behind. After he cut a particularly sharp bend, he suddenly bumped into the other. The elder immediately grabbed Tommaso by the waist and up they went. Before he knew what had happened, Tommaso tumbled onto the rooftop terrace of some building. He fell onto his bruises. White hot pain started to course through his body _again_ , and he doubled over. As if driven by some primeval drive, he crawled towards the corner closest to him, away from the boy, away from everything that had happened, and huddled up in a miserable heap.

         The boy discreetly waited for Tommaso to regain his composure. Tommaso settled down with his back against the wall, and examined the surroundings. Chiselling tools and blocks of stone were all around. They were on top of some artisan’s workshop.

         That’s where they are sitting still. “What do you mean, ‘not your impression’?” Tommaso asks suspiciously.

         “I’ve been observing you,” the boy says up front.

         Now Tommaso is taken aback for real. He has been under observation? Why? How did he not know? _Who_ is this boy, and _what_ does he want? “What…?” he stammers.

         “Observing you. As in, watching you. Following you every now and then. See what you do. Get to know you.”

         “Why?”

         “I don’t know.” The boy shrugs. “I saw you around. You seemed interesting enough. I’m new to Florence. I don’t know anybody here. The other apprentices in the workshop… we don’t get along too well. Judging from my observations, you don’t seem to get along too well with too many people either. I guess we’re both in need of a friend. So I thought, why not give it a try? My name is Leonardo by the way. Leonardo da Vinci.” His stream of words abruptly ends and he offers his hand to Tommaso, looking at him expectantly.

         The revelation that he has been followed leaves Tommaso dumbstruck. But the sheer frankness of the other, as well as the complete sincerity in his eyes, seriously impress him. He takes the hand that is offered to him with his right hand, letting the other pull him up. “So be it,” he says. “My name’s Tommaso. Tommaso Masini da Peretola.”

         Leonardo nods in acknowledgement. “Happy to make your acquaintance, Tommaso Masini. Formally, that is.”

         “How did we get up here?” Tommaso asks.

         Leonardo beams at him. “Block and tackle,” he answers proudly. He doesn’t feel the need to elaborate, though Tommaso makes it a point to frown. “I made the construction myself,” Leonardo continues. “I built some before, but never of such a dimension. It was the biggest one I made so far. I had an inkling that we might need it. I’m just glad it worked as planned. You want to see it?”

         Leo likes to talk, that much is for sure. The edges of Tommaso’s mouth twitch upward in amusement. He shrugs. “Why not?” he says good-humouredly.

          He follows an eager Leo to examine the contraption. Leo blabbers on like a waterfall, using not only his tongue, but his eyes, his fingers, his arms, his entire body to speak. Tommaso observes him with fascination “… and then I cut the string,” Leo explains, imitating the movement with his arm, “to set the weight into motion and up we shot!” He jumps onto a nearby box, shouting “wusshh!”

         Tommaso giggles. He’s starting to like this strange boy.


End file.
